


Eating His Wings Variable

by Jeishii



Category: Hellsing
Genre: ... maybe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Family Secrets, Not everyone dies this time, Original Character-centric, Rating May Change, Seras Has a Friend Now, Tags May Change, Walter Had a Sibling in This One, Walter is a conniving old man, Witches, implied sexual tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 18:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11385684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeishii/pseuds/Jeishii
Summary: When the granddaughter of his late brother asks for help, Walter obliges; though help from the Hellsing Organization comes at a price of servitude to the cause. Colette Thatcher, the great-niece to the Hellsing butler, enters employ as a maid within the Organization after spending years chased by "associates" of her absent father.There is no hiding your nature from Hellsing, and it is made clear that her abilities will be put to use for the benefit of the Organization if Integra sees fit. When Millenium begins to move and Colette's own demons come closing in, she learns uncomfortable truths about herself and her family - both those long gone and those closest to her. Her definition of humanity is threatened, her sense of being disrupted.How will she fare in the war against the darkness? Will she stand as a torch against the night, or let it swallow her whole?[[An alternate universe fleshing out Walter's (never-mentioned) family line and Colette's. There will be many OCs, the violence you expect from Hellsing, and some major events may be changed. What defines a monster?]]





	Eating His Wings Variable

**Author's Note:**

> I've toyed with the idea of Walter having a family for a while (errybody comes from somewhere), and I have actually built a backstory for his family line leading to Colette's existence, and I will reveal it slowly. Hopefully, it's not too contrived. Colette has things that will make her "special and different" like any OC, but I want to keep it clear she's not here as a rival to Alucard, or even to her uncle. She can't single-handedly save everyone and everything, though she will try her damndest.
> 
> [Also, yes, the title of the overall story is a reference to the Ripley Scrolls, the whole Bird of Hermes bit.]

**Subtitle: _Hiding From The Wolf in the Den of Vipers_**

              Brewing tea was one of his favorite activities. It was soothing, the aroma of the fine leaves wafting through the kitchen. As he carried the tray bearing the perfectly brewed Darjeeling to the desk of Integra Hellsing, Walter C. Dornez - Hellsing butler and trash man - timed his steps so that the tea would be ready exactly when he was about to pour it.

              “Darjeeling today, Ma’am,” he advised jovially as he delicately set the tray on her desk. She looked up from the report she was scanning, leaned back in her chair, and breathed in the scent of the fragrant steam rising from the teacup as Walter poured.

              “It smells wonderful as always,” the head of the Hellsing Organization complimented, relaxing visibly. “We received another complaint letter regarding the cost of the mission in Lancaster.” Her expression and tone of voice suggested she was more amused than the writer of the letter was likely hoping she would be. Walter smiled beatifically and set the tea cup in front of her, set perfectly in the center of its saucer.

              “I believe the latest report of vampire activity came from Glasgow?” he asked. She nodded, setting the report down and lifting the cup of tea, warming her gloved hands on it. She eyed him curiously from behind her round-rimmed glasses. “I would like to request permission to accompany Alucard and the men, with the aim of taking a brief leave once the mission is underway... unless I am needed.”

              “Oh?” Integra crossed her legs under the desk, settling in. “I’m sure I can spare you the time. What is the reason for your request?”

              “Quite some time ago, as you recall, I took leave to attend the funeral of my younger brother, Winston,” Walter began, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. After she nodded, he continued, ”I may have mentioned his daughter, Beatrice, in passing - and even less, his granddaughter, Colette. I recently received a letter from Colette - which, as she would have likely had no idea how to reach me without going to some extreme measures, was surprise enough in itself.

              “Her letter is brief, succinctly detailing her belief that her father has become entangled in some less than savory business,” Walter said, pulling a letter from his breast pocket of his vest. He handed it to Integra, and the woman skimmed through it as he continued. “I believe she honestly thinks she is running out of time, as she cannot seem to lose them for more than a few months at a time.”

              Integra handed him the letter, and he took it, folding it precisely and returning it to his vest pocket.

              “It would appear she is asking if I can provide her with some form of sanctuary, keeping her out of their cross-hairs long enough for her to find her father, and find out why she is being hunted so fervently.” Walter’s voice was calm and pleasant, as if he was relaying information about the day’s weather or what was for lunch.

              “Would you deem this niece of yours a possible asset to Hellsing, or a liability?” Integra asked, matching his casual tone, though anyone who knew her well - all of two people living or undead - would sense the underlying curiosity. Walter smiled again, this time the expression slightly eager.

              “Oh, I believe she can shape up to be quite an asset. If my sources are all reliable - and I do believe they are - she would fit in rather well here... given time to acclimate and understand her obligations.”

              “Very well then. Please meet with her and report back. We shall go from there.”

_ Some time later _

              Her steps, slow from exhaustion from a long shift at a local pub, were muffled by the dirty green carpet. Her flat was on the fourth floor of a cramped apartment building in Glasgow, with crumbling mortar and poor upkeep. It was cheap, though, and so far removed from the types of people her father had associated with that it offered some sense of safety. At least, from those hounding her. And she could pay in advance with cash, no questions asked. That worked well enough for her.

              Yet, when she neared her door, her plodding feet stopped. She froze, eyes the color of pale seafoam widening. The ward on her door was gone and someone was in her flat. Swallowing the lump in her throat, rubbing suddenly sweaty palms against her slacks, she visually scanned the door, the floor around it, the lock. No sign of forced entry and every shred of the warm ethereal glow that her ward normally left on the edges of her sight were gone. There was no sense of a threat - but whomever, or whatever, was inside of her flat was powerful... and apparently, good at picking locks.

              Closing her eyes, she breathed slowly, then took the last three paces to her door. She twisted the doorknob, pushing it open, not surprised to find it unlocked.

              The man inside had his back to her. Smooth black hair, similar to her own, was pulled in a neat ponytail. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he stood ramrod straight - perfect posture, maximizing his full height, which she guessed at around or just over six feet tall. His shirt was bright white, pressed, and finely pinstriped; his vest had a black satin back of fine quality; his black slacks ended in shiny black dress shoes. She knew this man, though his unexpected appearance and ability to enter her apartment did not assuage her fear.

              He addressed her without turning around.

              “I was surprised to learn what an abysmal place you had taken to hiding in,” he commented, his deep voice and prim accent the picture of posh. He reached out with his right hand and touched one of her only decorations - a white porcelain cat sitting atop a barren bookshelf. “I must say though, you keep this place quite spotless. I daresay this is likely the cleanest apartment in the entire building.”

              She didn’t know how to respond to the compliment; his tone suggested that it indeed was a compliment, yet that he opened with such a statement was extremely confusing for her.

              He turned to her then, and she saw a face she had only a vague memory of. It was lined with age, and he wore a monocle she hadn’t recalled seeing at her grandfather’s funeral, but it was him. Walter C. Dornez. Though she had written him, she had expected, at most, a written reply. And yet, he was there. in the middle of her tiny flat, in the living area with its attached kitchen nook and firmly shut door leading to her tiny bedroom and attached water closet.

              “Now. What was this about your life being in danger?”

              And so began a conversation that lasted three hours, nearly on the dot. Walter had checked his pocket watch two times, warning her when his time was nearly up. He had excused himself at exactly midnight. He had to return to his employer, and his ride would be passing through the pickup zone in fifteen minutes, so he needed to be on his way. The work was done, and he was to return to London. He would discuss her situation with his boss, and she would hear from him soon. The entire thing felt rather like an interview for a job, except for the briefest moment of familial intimacy; when she stood to walk him to the door, he placed a large hand on her head. She tilted her head back to look up at him, and for the first time she saw warmth in his piercing eyes.

              When he was gone, the lack of his presence made the tiny space feel vast and empty. She sat on her small sofa for a time and replayed the visit over in her head, before remembering her ward on her door had been broken. She sluggishly gathered the needed materials from her various stashes in the flat. If she didn’t fix it now, she may not wake up in the morning.

_ One month later. _

              The Greyhound bus rolled to a stop at a small depot on the outskirts of London. As the woman stood, collecting her suitcase from the overhead bin, she heard the American girl who had been sitting behind her for the last hour and a half chirp about the “tooty doggo coach depot”. The young woman suppressed a sigh. She quickly pulled her suitcase down, tucked her small clutch under arm, adjusted her large cross-body bag resting against her hip, and strode down the narrow aisle to the doors.

              As she stepped down from the bus, her wide-brimmed white straw hat shielded her eyes from the noon sun. Her low heels clacked on the pavement as she lugged her heavy brown leather case in her left hand, her right holding the thin sun hat as a breeze threatened to pluck it from her head. Long, pin-straight black hair flowed on the rising wind, the voluminous skirts of her cream-colored sun dress whirling around her long legs.

              Quickly walking toward the pickup/drop-off zone off to the side of the brick depot, the woman turned pale, nearly colorless green eyes toward the cars in the small lot. A black town car rolled slowly toward the pavement, before a driver in a charcoal gray suit and jaunty driver’s cap stepped out, holding up a sign that read “Colette Thatcher”.

              Ah. Her ride was already here. How efficient.

              When he noticed her walking toward him, the driver tossed his sign back inside the car and jogged around front.

              “Ms. Thatcher, I presume?” the man asked, accent placing his origins from somewhere in the North of the UK. She smiled, though she knew it did not reach her eyes, and nodded. “I’ll take this then.” The man, perhaps in his early forties from the lines around his eyes and mouth and graying of the brown hair at his temples, took her suitcase. He looked from her to the bus, still disembarking passengers. “Is this... all that you have, Miss?”

              “Yes. I travel light.” Colette’s voice was low, soft. He smiled and opened the back door for her to step into the car.

              She slid into the car and belted herself in after he shut the door, adjusting her bag on her knees rather than setting it next to herself. The driver popped into the car and went through checking and adjusting mirrors, belting himself in, then slowly rolled the car forward. He asked her if she was comfortable, could use more air, was this her first time out to the Manor? She responded distantly as she watched the world go by out the car window. The trees became more plentiful, the houses more sparse as they sped toward their destination.

              The greenery was swaying and she felt the car rock more than once in a heavy wind that was building up. In the distance, the sky was turning gray, heavy with the promise of rain. The bright spring day was threatening a storm.

              She drew the zipper on her clutch and pulled a well-worn letter out. It was on heavy stationery, the crisp cursive written elegantly in black ink. She scanned the note once again, as she had several times a day since it had arrived.

              “ _Enclosed is a ticket for the Greyhound leaving from the depot near your flat in two weeks’ time. You will arrive in London at noon on Saturday; a car will pick you up. Bring whatever you need to be comfortable. I have agreed to take you in for the time being; however, you will be required to explain your situation to the master of the house, as well as work in exchange for your stay. I look forward to seeing you again. - Walter C. Dornez_ ”

              Her great-uncle. She had met him three times in her life that she could clearly remember. Once when she was five years old, when her grandfather, Winston Dornez, and her mother, Beatrice, were still alive. Once again at her grandfather’s funeral when she was twelve - he had not been to her mother’s funeral a year later. And then again, exactly one month prior, after she had broken down and reached out. She could not keep running. They had found the last three flats she had hidden in. She had no friends. She refused to accept aid from her father. So, she reached out to the man she had only met twice previously, after an acquaintance with some questionable skills managed to obtain a P.O. Box he guaranteed would reach her uncle - before telling her that she must never contact him again and disappearing.

              They slowed and the driver showed his ID to a man in a green military uniform the guard station outside of the massive gate attached to a brick and mortar wall that stretched out both to the left and right stood in front of the car. The iron gates swung forward on silent hinges once the driver was identified. However, her window was rolled down, and the man dressed as a soldier, complete with rifle - in his twenties perhaps, with a pleasant smile that didn’t reach his eyes - leaned down to look at her. She tilted her head back so he could see under her hat.

              “Identification, please, Miss.”

              Colette glimpsed a disapproving frown from the driver in his rear-view mirror. Perhaps he was insulted the guard didn’t think he had the right person? She tucked the letter, folded neatly once again, back into her clutch and pulled out an identification card. The man with the gun took it, examined her image closely and looked at her again, studying her carefully. Finally, he handed it back to her.

              “Welcome to Hellsing Manor. Please proceed.”

              “Thank you,” she mumbled as she tucked her card back in her clutch and zipped it shut. The car began moving. She turned to watch the man lift a phone and call ahead to the manor to alert them of their arrival.

              “An armed security guard?” she asked, turning back to look at the driver in the mirror. “Impressive, that.”

              “Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet, miss,” the driver - Henry, she believed he said his name was - chuckled. “The Hellsing Organization is a paramilitary force. I understand you’re here to visit a relative, so maybe you haven’t had a chance to be warned in advance.” Something in his casual tone told her he knew damn well she didn’t know anything about Hellsing. Or, that she shouldn’t.

              As they pulled up to a large fountain in the main drive and circled around to stop in front of the steps leading to the mansion’s huge front doors, Colette’s skin prickled, the fine hairs on her arms and neck standing. The rumors about the Hellsing Organization she was aware of came to mind again. A feeling not unlike the dread she felt when she had found her great-Uncle had essentially broken casually into her apartment came fluttering back.

              When Henry opened her door for her, she thanked him and stepped out. A gust of wind managed to steal her hat, and she had to press her slender fingers to her hair to stop it from whipping around her face.

              Colette sighed and gazed forlornly after her hat, which landed and rolled on the road, splotches of mud clear as day on the brim.

              "Wind's twocked yer hat, Miss" Henry commented cheerfully, slipping into a Geordie accent.

              “I take it you’re from near Newcastle?” she asked, smoothing her skirt nervously as she frowned at her hat, which danced away on the kicking up wind. “I’m paggered from the trip.” She smiled secretively at him and continued in her carefully cultivated RP. “I actually haven’t lived there in over a decade, but it’s nice to hear a familiar voice.”

              The man laughed and lead her up the stairs at a brisk pace. They reached the foyer just as the skies opened and dropped a deluge behind them.

              “Ah now, yer a right bobby dazzla when yeh talk like that,” he teased. She found herself smiling despite herself. He stopped once they were inside and set her case down. “Sorry love, but I have to go park the car and report in. You take care of yerself. I’ll see if I can’t get that hat of yours cleaned up and sent up to your room.”

              She said her goodbyes and watched as Henry disappeared out the large wooden doors, which shut behind him with a sense of finality.

              “Colette.”

              She turned to the sound of her name. Walter stood at the other side of the foyer, in front of a pair of large doors leading into the depths of the mansion. She bowed slightly.

              “Uncle Walter.”

              To her surprise, he smiled at that. The air of danger she sensed from him had not lessened, though he felt far more welcoming here than she had expected. She leaned down and picked up her suitcase. He eyed it, his smile fading.

              “My dear niece,” he began striding forward and taking the case from her. She considered protesting, then decided that it was not worth it to do so. He was still a butler to the Hellsing family - apparently, she noted, the only one - even at the age of 69. Only the lines on his face really spoke to his age. “I believe I instructed you to bring your things, as you would be living here, did I not?” There was a hint of steel to his voice. Admonishing the younger generation.

              “Dearest uncle, I assure you I did. My few changes of clothes and necessities in my suitcase, my important documents are in my clutch, and all other small personal effects are in my bag,” she assured him. “I lost most of my belongings over the last few years... and just didn’t feel the need to replace most of them.”

              He nodded his understanding before leading her through a series of doors. They stepped into what was likely the largest office she had ever seen. The white and black checkered marble floor was immaculate, as every room she had passed through had been. The furnishings were minimalist, but of the finest quality, with a small seating/waiting area toward the oak doors they passed through, and a heavy wooden desk on the opposite side of the room in front of tall windows looking out onto the grounds.

              Seated at the wide desk was a woman with long, somewhat wavy platinum blond hair, long locks framing her thin face. Her skin tone was noticeably darker than Colette and Walter’s, her hair a striking contrast to her complexion. Dull light filtered through rainclouds lit the woman from behind, a desk lamp illuminating her starkly from the front. Lightning lit the sky in the distance, the rumble of thunder muffled. Colette marveled at the woman, who watched the younger woman with cold indifference from behind her round glasses. Blue eyes tracked Colette’s movements as she stepped up to stand near the desk, behind and a pace to the left of her great-uncle.

              “So this is the distant relative you spoke of,” the woman greeted Walter. He bowed to her, a sly smirk lifting the corners of his mouth.

              “Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing, may I present Colette Eloise Thatcher.” He straightened up and gestured for Colette to step forward, which she did. She curtsied, wondering at the title of “Sir” rather than “Dame”, though she did not voice her confusion. “As I mentioned, she is the granddaughter of my younger brother, Winston.”

              Taking a deep breath, Colette took her cue.

              “I am honored to meet you, Sir Hellsing,” she began. “I apologize for the intrusion and thank you for agreeing to see me. I understand that I am to explain my situation to you. In short, seven years ago, my grandfather passed away. He was followed a year later by my mother. Since then, I have been attempting to avoid contact with my father, as he was entangled with some... unfortunate associates.” She frowned, gesturing with one hand as if grasping. “I’m not entirely sure of everything they were involved in, but several men came to our house and threatened him, repeatedly. I began receiving harassing mail while away at school, and our house was burned down twice.

              “A year after I severed ties with my father, they found me. They had ransacked the flat I was sharing with a fellow student, presumably trying to find my father, who has gone missing.” She could not keep the bitter edge of contempt from her voice. “I went into hiding, moving twenty times in the last seven years. I came home to the house I was staying at prior to my flat in Glasgow to find men waiting for me. I escaped, as they hadn’t noticed my return. But I am weary of trying to escape on my own.”

              She clasped her hands in front of her and felt her knuckles whiten. Her cheeks were red as she stared resolutely at a scuff in the wood of Sir Hellsing’s desk.

              “It is not in my nature to request favors or lean on others. I would rather deal with this myself, but until I find my father and get this dealt with, I need a place to stay where they cannot track or find me.” Colette pressed her lips together. ”I loathe to ask this of someone I have never met. I am happy to work for you, if you are in need of a maid or housekeep of any kind. Whatever is needed.”

              Silence met her, and as it stretched on, she felt her heart pounding in her chest. She knew that Integra was sizing her up. Her posture, the lines of her face, the set of her jaw. She realized she offered nearly nothing in explanation of who was hounding her family, or why. Integra had undoubtedly picked up on this.

              “While I am not in _need_ of a maid, you are welcome to stay and take up a position as such,” Integra said finally in her rich voice. Colette’s head jerked up and she stared at her, eyes wide. She knew her uncle had already told her she would be staying, but Integra’s easy acceptance of her vague and bizarre story was nothing short of miraculous to the younger woman. “If you are in danger, the Hellsing Organization is likely the best place for you to stay. Though know this - we are not a simple household. Nor a normal paramilitary group.”

              Those blue eyes bored into Colette.

              “What do you know about what we do?” Integra questioned.

              Colette found herself looking to her uncle, who watched her out of the corner of his eye. He hadn’t discussed the purpose of the Hellsing Organization to her, had not asked if she understood. Something in his unwavering gaze gave her solace and she turned back to Integra.

              “I have heard that the Hellsing Organization is a watchdog for the Queen, handling... supernatural problems that the police cannot,” she said flatly, with no sense of mockery or irony.

              “What do you make of this?”

              “I am not sure what you mean.”

              “Come now. I’m sure you realize that I know quite a bit about you, even though we have not met?” Integra asked her, lips curled in a smile. She opened the lid of a cigarillo box and pulled one of the tightly rolled objects out, lighting it with practiced motions of her white-gloved hands, eyes never leaving Colette’s face. She took a drag and leaned back in her over-sized executive chair, crossing her legs at the knee. “I’m sure you have some opinion of the ‘rumors’ you state you have heard.”

              Colette’s hands, still clasped in front of her, twitched.

              Walter could have broken the ward on her door simply with the power of his ignorance and sheer presence of will. She wanted to believe that, though the likelihood was that he knew. To her knowledge, the abilities she had been born with didn’t come from the Dornez line. Rather, it originated with her father, though rumors existed about her grandmother Giulia as well. If this organization was really what it promised to be - if they really had _the things_ she had heard whispered by those who assured her they knew what sort of entity her family had worked for - then they knew more about her than anyone else outside of her immediate family and her father’s associates.

              Still, she was struggling to formulate a response to Integra, words and ideas escaping her. She never talked about it. She was forbidden from talking about it. Talking about it before she really understood had lead to - she banished the train of thought. There was no use in pretending or hiding here, not with this woman. It struck her suddenly that her grandfather may have, indeed, had a much deeper understanding of Colette than she expected - and had passed the information along. Paranoia and fear of saying the wrong thing gnawing at her, she finally let out the breath she had been holding.

              “I suppose I can’t really pretend I don’t understand what you’re asking,” she sighed. She felt some of the tension in her body ease, her hands relaxing, joints sore from being held so tightly. “It scares me to be standing here. You scare me.” She nodded her head toward her uncle. “He is the single most frightening man I have ever encountered. I **feel** like death is inside of this mansion.” She ran her hands over her dress again, nervous gesture revealing her discomfort even as her voice held steady and her expression remained a distant mask. “I am terrified because this is a house that hunts creatures that exist outside of the norms of humanity. I exist outside of those norms, even as I play at being a normal human. I don’t expect you to accept me without awareness of what I am and what I can do, as equally as I did not ask to stay here without having an idea of what Hellsing was.”

              Once again, warmth she had not expected to find glinted in Integra’s eyes when the woman smiled at her around her cigarillo, dangling from her lips. The smell of tobacco rolled around her on a cloud of thin white smoke.

              “I had wondered if you would try to lie to me. I am glad you didn’t. So, it is my understanding that witches are supposed to be supervised by their covens at your age,” the head of the Hellsing Organization commented as she stood, walking around her chair and turning her back on Colette and Walter as she gazed out the windows. “You do not have such a chaperon.”

              “I find the majority of the politics in the Covens tiresome,” Colette responded quietly. “I am permitted to act as a solitary witch, as long as I do not cause trouble for the Covens themselves. I don’t know that they even know where I am at this point. Whoever my father double-crossed, they work outside of the Coven and Humanity’s law.”

              “We do not usually deal with witches - or have not in the time I have been in charge.” Integra casually turned back to them, tapping the ashes from the end of her cigarillo in the square-shaped heavy glass ashtray on her desk. “That said, you’re safer here - if you can keep yourself out of trouble.” Her eyes met Colette’s, and the younger woman felt a chill creep across her skin. “Tread carefully.”

              Colette’s lips parted, but no response came. There was nothing she could think of to say. She nodded, swallowing. The doors behind them, a different set than the ones Walter and Colette had entered through, swung open. Colette turned to see a woman closer to her own age, with short, spiky blond hair, in a golden-yellow, short-skirted approximation of a police uniform stride toward them. Her cheerful greetings died when she saw Colette. Large blue eyes blinked rapidly, and she waved at the black-haired girl.

              “Oh! Hullo. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt - but Master asked me to come and give a status report to you, Sir,” the girl chirped. She definitely appeared embarrassed at interrupting them, and was rubbing the back of her head sheepishly.

              “Thank you, Seras. I will take the report with tea,” Integra looked to Walter, who bowed and gestured for Colette to follow him.

              “I will show you the kitchens. Starting on Monday, you will assist me with my duties there,” he told his niece. He nodded to the other girl, Seras. “This is Seras Victoria - one of Sir Integra’s _operatives._ ” He was watching Colette, who was watching Seras. Pale, pale green eyes were fixed on the blond girl, who was now returning the stare with a curious one of her own.

              The aura was wrong. It was black. No living human had a fully black aura - it wasn’t possible. Some witches could mask their aura, but there was still some color to it, though muddied and hard to read. This girl’s aura was nearly a void, with only the faintest hues in its core. Like a flame flickering against the darkness. She was not human - though perhaps she tried to be, in her heart.

              ”... Hello, Seras Victoria.” Colette nodded to the girl. _Danger danger danger danger_. Her senses screamed that this was a predator - even though the girl seemed anything but predatory.

              “Oh.. hullo.” Seras looked to Walter, then Integra, clearly confused. “I’m sorry - I feel like I’m missing something. Walter, is this a relative of yours? She looks like she could be your daughter,” Seras laughed, exposing her sharp canines. Walter returned the smile blithely.

              “Very astute, Seras. This is my niece, Colette. She will be working as a maid and staying in the manor with us,” he replied smoothly before walking toward the door Seras entered through. “If you will excuse us, ma’am, Seras, I would like to show Colette to her room, then the kitchen. I will have tea ready on time, as always.”

              Colette followed him out, and around the back of the manor to the servant’s quarters. Nearly all the rooms were empty as it appeared her uncle was truly the only other live-in servant.

              “You really do employ vampires,” Colette remarked softly as he set her suitcase on the twin-sized four-poster bed in the small, but well-furnished room. A wardrobe sat against the wall to her right, she seemed to have her own small bathroom with a door leading to it on the wall to the left of the wardrobe, a plush chair sat against the wall to Colette’s left where a single window looked out at the gardens outside the mansion, and a small coffee table completed the furniture for the room. The smile he gave her was mischievous.

              “You really are a witch,” he responded. She flushed, looking down at the floor. His footsteps were muffled by a plush area rug as he drew close. He rested a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up at him again. “You will not be turned out here, Colette. You will be put to work - as a maid, and if she finds a use for your other talents, perhaps as more.” His face was serious as his eyes bored into her. “You are not a caged beast - but you _will_ be expected to follow human law, and obey your orders while you are here.”

              She nodded. “Yes, Uncle.”

              The rest of that evening was spent familiarizing herself with the manor. She was introduced to various members of the paramilitary force, so they would recognize her face and so she would know who to report to should she need anything. Come Monday, her first day of employ, she was supplied with a somewhat modernized Victorian-inspired maid uniform, including a voluminous high-waisted black skirt that reached just to her knees and kept its bell shape with a petticoat, pressed white blouse with a bit of puff to the long sleeves, a black silk bow tie, and frilled white apron to wear over it. The worst part was likely the frilled maid cap sitting atop the neatly folded uniform.

              She was unable to stop the incredulous look she fixed her uncle, but he simply grinned in that completely unaffected way of his.

              When she was catcalled by a soldier in passing, though, the man reported later to his fellows that when he rounded the corner to find Walter there, he had such a sense of dread and fear he thought the Angel of Death had come for him. He wouldn’t look Colette in the eye after that and started to refer to her as ma’am. She laughed when she found out why he’d started deferring to her like she was a superior to him.

              Of everyone she had met in Hellsing, despite her vampirism, Seras was the most “normal” person Colette had met. She seemed happy to have someone so close in age to her, and while she was hesitant at first, Colette allowed herself to talk casually with the blond. The woman had been 19, the same age as Colette, when turned. She was even still young as a vampire, having been changed within the last year, the witch learned. Not much was said about the one who had changed her.

              Colette would not meet Alucard, the legendary monster “belonging” to the Hellsing Organization, until the Wednesday following her arrival.

              The raven-haired witch was on the second floor, in the library. Walter had shown her the room and given her a copy of the ledger recording the books within, but the ledger had last been updated close to fifteen years prior. She was tasked with re-cataloging the tomes in the room, and re-sorting them. It took the entire day, with only the occasional break to assist Walter in serving tea and biscuits to Integra and the members of the Counsel of Twelve, who had met to discuss the budget for the next fiscal quarter.

              The library was a large room, with bookshelves lining every wall. A single bay window sat opposite the door, granting a view of the driveway - she could just make out the gate and guardhouse in the distance during the day. The room smelled of dust and old books. Several stretched from floor to ceiling, with a large table and a set of chairs in the center of the room for readers to sit at. While the room was in relative order, she had found quite a few books misplaced, and several volumes not cataloged. Cosette found that the busywork was pleasant, allowing her to focus on the task with minimal interruption.

              The sun had long since set. Her work was uneventful, beyond a brief moment where she felt an odd jolt work through her body. She had paused, sitting still and listening - had someone walked by? The energy in the building felt... different, though she couldn’t quite place why. Eventually, the sensation passed, and she returned to work.

              Closing a large leather-bound book and making a final note on a sheaf of papers in shorthand with neat strokes of her pen, Colette finished for the evening. She would sort and rewrite her catalog in a new ledger the next day. The witch sighed. Her eyelids had grown heavy, and she pressed the pads of her thumbs to her eyes gently. Rubbing her forehead, she leaned back in the low-backed chair and looked up at the ceiling, feeling the muscles in her neck and shoulders pinch. She’d been hunched over the desk for far too long.

              Hands flat on the table, she pushed herself to her feet before dragging the heavy book, the last in a twelve-volume series on tactics for paramilitary units, off the table. She located the shelf she had filed the rest in, propped it into place, and dusted her hands off.

              “I feel like all I can smell is book dust,” she muttered to herself as she walked to the door. She pulled it open, popped her head out to check both ways in the hallway to ensure she wasn’t going to walk into someone - she had already done that twice in the small handful of days she had been staying in the manor - then exited the library and locked the door behind her. She slipped the heavy brass key back into her apron pocket, turning left to make her way to the staircase downstairs. She would slip into the kitchen and see if there were any sandwiches left from the meeting. It was easier to nip the leftovers than make something new for herself.

              As she passed a mirror in the hallway, she paused to glance at herself. Her tiredness was beginning to show in the slight bags forming under her eyes. They were already a bit too large for her diamond-shaped face and slightly hooded, which seemed to amplify the look of tiredness. Her nose was Romanesque with a gently raised ridge. She really did look a lot like her uncle, she thought.

              Her uniform was a bit wrinkled from leaning over the table most of the day, and she absently tried to smooth the creases out of the heavy fabric. Although she was initially somewhat offended by the bizarrely stereotypical outfit, she had to admit she looked quite elegant in it. Her blouse had a smooth button front, was thick enough that only a light camisole was needed underneath the pressed white cloth, and had only a hint of ruffles at the throat and sleeve cuffs. The high-waisted skirt was flattering, slimming her waist and stomach; and the frilled smock-style apron wasn’t quite as ridiculous on her as she originally worried it would be.

              She brushed a few loose strands of her black hair away from her face, tucking them behind her ears. She adjusted the cap pinned to her hair. Her fine black hair, waist-length when worn down, was braided into tight plaits and wound into a bun at the back of her neck to keep it out of the way. She wore no makeup, save for a touch of mascara and eyeliner. Overall, she was pleased with how she presented herself.

              Smoothing her apron over her shoulders, she turned away from the mirror and continued to the stairs. She had to step aside quickly once she reached the bottom, as a squad of the Hellsing soldiers were jogging down the hallway. She felt her hip collide with a sideboard, and winced as she upset an empty vase, which toppled to the floor.

              One of the men stopped and apologized to her profusely, offering to help clean up the glass. She smiled and waved him off.

              “No, it was my fault - I’ll take care of it,” Colette insisted. “You’re off to a meeting, aren’t you? I don’t think you want to keep Sir Integra waiting.” The man clearly agreed as he babbled another apology and dashed off, following the others toward Integra’s office.

              Stepping away from the mess, hands on her hips, Colette surveyed the damage. The vase was small, but looked finely made. Surely it was worth a lot. It had cracked, large chunks falling away from the rim of the vase. Sucking on her lower lip, she considered her options. Finally, she smoothed her skirt below her as she crouched down, then reached down to right the vase. Once she had it standing, she picked up each piece and carefully set it inside of the vase itself. As she went to stand, her body, stiff from sitting hunched all day, staggered and she lost her balance. Her hand flew out to brace herself against the wall, the vase slipping in her right hand. Without thinking, she shifted her grasp on the rim, and hissed in pain as the jagged broken edge bit into her palm.

              Once she was standing safely, she glared balefully at the white vase with its pattern of roses and petals on the side. Bright red blood slid sluggishly down to stain the pink petals. Colette sighed and adjusted her grip to move her hand away from the sharp edge, hastily unbuttoning her sleeve cuff so she could push the cloth up her arm. Small miracles - she didn’t get any blood on the white shirt.

              The nearest washroom was down the hall and to the right, wasn’t it? She would be able to rinse her hand, maybe find a cloth to stop the bleeding.

              She made her way down the hall after setting the vase back onto its table, vowing to come back for it. She walked quickly, her short boots with their low heel making a satisfying _clack_ as she walked down the hall. She felt her annoyance ebb away with each step - she got a silly sense of enjoyment from hearing the sound of her steps echo softly in the large halls. For a place that employed almost 100 soldiers, it was often empty in the manor. It was purely bad luck that she entered the hallway at the same time as that small unit.

              She scoffed at herself for the thought. “Luck” and her family did not go hand in hand.

              Injured hand held aloft with her long fingers pressed against the flesh where the skin had been cut just above her thumb pad, she felt blood begin to trickle down her arm as she entered the washroom. The room was just as the name implied - an actual lavatory, offering a long counter space with three sinks, an ornate mirror running its length, and hand towels aplenty. The huge dining room was just further down the hallway, so it was likely intended for guests to freshen up without leaving unpleasant smells for others on their way to eat. It was lit with bright overhead lights and vanity lights around the mirror. She blinked against the brightness.

              The room was quite large - like almost every other room in the maddeningly huge mansion. It was easily fifteen feet from the door to the sink across the room. A small lounge sat to the right, perhaps for ladies to wait their turn? To the left, a bank of cabinets and a linen closet.

              She turned on her heel and strode to a linen closet. She pulled open the cabinet and pulled out a darkly colored hand towel - less likely to stain visibly - and made her way back to the sink. She turned on the cold water after setting the towel aside and slipped her arm under the stream of clear liquid, rinsing the blood that had trailed nearly to her elbow. She gritted her teeth as she opened her hand and relieved the pressure on her cut. It wasn’t particularly deep, but hand injuries always hurt more than they had any right to. She ensured there were no shards or grit from the porcelain vase, examining the depth of the cut and seeing it was shallow. It ran nearly the whole length of her palm. The water running down the drain was still pink when she turned off the faucet with her left hand.

              Sucking her lower lip absently, she dabbed her arm dry with the dark green hand towel, thankful that it was soft. Her hands froze before she reached her palm.

              The hairs on her neck and arms stood, a fine tremor beginning to work through her body. The feeling that had caught her attention when she was working in the library had returned, stronger, and a hell of a lot more imposing. The room seemed darker - she gasped as a black shadow seemed to crawl across her skin. Closing her eyes, she “pushed” it away with her mind as one might try and shove away a bad thought. She felt resistance, but when she opened her eyes the shadows had receded, leaving her to question her instincts. The thought lasted barely half a second.

              A deep, masculine chuckle sent a fresh jolt of alarm up her back, and she spun around, dropping the towel in the process. Automatically she lifted her right hand, placing the cut above her heart to try and minimize any further bleeding, her left hand lifting up to ward off whatever was behind her - around her? Above her? The voice almost reverberated _through_ her, and sure enough there was no one behind her.

              Forcing herself to breathe slowly, she looked behind her shoulder, into the mirror. Her own reflection looked back at her, glassy green eyes wide. Her pupils had constricted in response to her fear. She turned back, and found she was definitely no longer alone. Her hip bit into the sink as she tried to step backward, trying to increase the ten-foot distance. He was five feet into the room, the door shut firmly behind him. It had been closed when she had turned around. She had no doubt that he hadn’t used it.

              He had impressive height, well over six feet - at least a full head taller than even her uncle, she guessed. His wild black hair framed a long, pale face below a wide-brimmed red hat. A pair of round glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, and she couldn’t see his eyes - they seemed to catch the light in the room and throw it back abnormally. He was grinning an impossibly wide grin with his large mouth, full lips parted and a wall of sharp teeth, oddly bright, gleaming at her. He was dressed in long trench coat with Victorian styling, including what appeared to be a capelet on the shoulders. His suit beneath it was a dark gray, almost black in the shadows of his coat. A 19th century-style red cravat was tied at his throat.

              She felt her breath leave her body. Beyond his physical height, his presence was imposing. She dared to open her third eye very, very slightly, and regretted it immediately. She had to close her physical eyes and clamp down on her witch senses. If Seras’ aura had been black, this man’s - this monster’s - was abyssal. Even more horrifying, the miasma around him appeared to be filled with _eyes_ \- red and hungry, all focusing on her the instant she made the mistake of noticing them. She braced herself against the counter behind her with her left hand to stop the slow slump of her body as her limbs threatened to refuse to keep her standing.

              Colette’s eyes snapped open again when she heard the man stride slowly toward her, his heavy footfalls sounding distant as she fought to regain her composure. he was not even an arm’s length away, and was looking at her over his glasses. The wolfish grin had become something closer to a knowing smirk, finally hiding those frightening teeth. His eyes were like pools of fire, red and gold where the light hit them.

              “I was passing through to my chambers when I caught the scent of your blood,” he told her amiably, his deep voice practically _purring_. “You’re going to bleed on your uniform.”

              When his large hand closed under her elbow, partly supporting her still unbalanced form, her senses were immediately overwhelmed. He pulled her slightly away from the counter, and she had to slide her left foot to brace her heel against the cabinets beneath the sink, her left hand gripping the counter top as if it would anchor her in place. As if it could stop him from pulling her away. An act of desperation as the power in her body, her magic, responded to his presence with an answering thrum, seeking to understand what he was and swallowed up quickly by his oppressive aura.

              So this was the “master” Seras had mentioned at their first meeting. There was no doubt in her mind on whose presence she was unfortunate enough to be in , though the importance of this - and the danger - was ebbing out of her mind. Her mental “walls”, her internal wards, were drowned out by his oppressive aura. It took considerable effort to focus through the invasive sensation.

              He had taken hold of her right hand, and turned it so that he could see the damage to her palm. He pressed his thumb into her hand below the cut, and she gasped as her fingers uncurled slightly. The pain was a mixed blessing, clearing her mind enough to allow her to force a shaky mental shield in place to lessen the cloudiness in her mind.

              Blood had begun to stream down her arm. Eyes still on hers, lips parting in a taunting grin, he pulled her arm up and lowered his head. His tongue, long and slick and red, darted out to capture the stream before it reached her rolled-up sleeve.

              She found herself transfixed, horrified and yet entranced by this ridiculously bold behavior. He stopped short of licking her wound, turning those red eyes to her face. His mouth hovered over the cut, and she felt her face grow pale. He held her gaze as he latched his mouth over the wound, not biting - simply letting the blood flow up and onto his tongue. With somewhat strangled cry, she tried to pull her hand down and away and was not surprised when it felt like she was trying to free her hand from a statue. Albeit a statue with a very warm, wet tongue lapping at her palm. She gasped as he lifted his head, sucking ever so softly on her skin as he pulled away. Pain zipped down her hand and through her nerves, coiling in the pit of her stomach.

              In the back of her mind, a small voice - her rationality again, perhaps - admonished her, reminding her that this was the sort of thing that got a person killed.

              “It has been seventy-five years since I tasted the blood of a witch,” he told her, his voice rolling out in almost a growl. “Wherever did my Master find you?”

              Colette’s mind blanked. He didn’t know who she was yet?

              Ah. The mission.

              A handful of operatives and Seras’ master were in the field when she arrived, and had been for some time. A vampire nest in Lancaster. Snippets of information she had picked up from conversations of the soldiers around her as she wandered about doing the odd jobs her uncle gave her. Ha. Feeling recklessly brave in the stupor his overwhelming presence had placed her in, she replied while staring at her hand, bleeding freely now.

              “Couldn’t see that much in my blood?” She laughed, though it sounded breathy. “And here I was taught that vampires could rip your entire life’s story out of your blood with little effort. Are you only into taking blood without consent? Memories too troublesome?”

              His laughter was sudden and raucous. She jumped, eyes going to his face. There was amusement there, dark and wicked, when he looked down at her again.

              “Did you want me to stop, little witch?”

              “Alucard.”

              The voice was certainly not hers. The vampire turned on his heel and looked toward the door, his smug smile still stretching his mouth.

              Walter stood in the opened door, and Colette imagined she could feel the winds of hell rising off of the old man.

              “I see you have met my _niece_ , Colette.”

              Surprise - genuine, perhaps - swept the grin from Alucard’s face. He was still holding onto her wrist, her blood seeping into his glove. Walter undoubtedly had a perfect view of her now, how she was slumped against the sink, trying to keep herself on her feet. Alucard’s movement upset her balance, and she felt her hand slip from the granite surface of the counter top. Her yelp hadn’t even left her lips when Alucard caught her with his left arm and hauled her upright, propelling her a pace toward her uncle - though he did not let go of her hand. His arm was hot against her back, keeping her upright as she regained her footing.

              “Winston’s granddaughter?” The menace that flowed from the vampire seemed to recede a bit. “And here I thought I knew all of your secrets, old man.” Alucard’s tone was amiable. Walter returned his smile as he moved to casually close the distance between himself and his niece. “I didn’t realize your family had witch blood running so close to the surface.”

              “It appears to come from her father - though there is some speculation that her grandmother may have also been a practitioner,” Walter responded, offering his hand to Colette. She took it, and Alucard’s arm fell away from her back - though, still, he held her right hand. She realized with a start his thumb was pressed over the wound, stopping the flow of blood. Her shaken mental state had numbed her to the pain in her hand. “I will take her the infirmary and tend to the cut.”

              Walter’s voice had that knife-edge she had quickly learned was his way of ending a conversation without protest. A low chuckle rumbled through Alucard as he finally released her hand.

              “Of course.”

              “I’m sorry,” Colette found herself stammering as Walter took her to the hallway. He shook his head and patted her left hand where it was still entwined in his, then pulled a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her to wrap around her cut. The blood flow had nearly stopped.

              She twisted to look back, partly from fear he would follow them, partly out of curiosity to see what the vampire would do. She was not surprised to find no trace of him in the hallway. She sincerely doubted he was still in the room.

              “Not at all,” Walter responded, turning her attention back to himself. “I failed to warn you he would be returning.” He was frowning. “I take it the broken vase I found was the cause of your wound?”

              “I can fix it,” she said as a way of explanation. “I can at least do that much, once my hand is treated. I meant to clean it and find something to slow the bleeding.”

              “You couldn’t heal the cut?” His tone was not accusatory - he seemed to simply be interested in the opportunity to learn about one of the limitations of her power. She shook her head.

              “No - healing is extremely complicated, and not an easy magic to master. Healers often are also doctors for regular humans, as they have to be familiar with how the human cellular structure and natural healing mechanisms work,” she admitted. He continued asking her questions, and she answered them dutifully. It wasn’t until he had sprayed antiseptic on her hand and bandaged it in the infirmary int he basement level of the manor that she realized he was distracting her from the shock of her encounter with Alucard.

              As she sat on a chair opposite him as he deftly applied butterfly bandages to close her wound, then wrapped it in clean gauze and medical tape, she looked down at her left hand, clenched in the folds of her apron.

              “I don’t know why I didn’t defend myself....” she said softly. His hands paused in their motion to close up the first aid kit he had pulled out of a drawer in the desk they sat in front of. “One moment, everything was normal, and the next, it was like ... my senses had been dulled. I feel stupid. I can manipulate energy, do things normal humans cannot. Yet, in the face of the most dangerous creature I have ever seen in my life, I just froze.”

              “You do not need to apologize to me for being frightened of a centuries-old vampire,” her uncle admonished gently. “You are a witch, but you are barely more than a child. He also ambushed you,” Walter pointed out, his tone sour. “I will need to discuss this with Sir Integra.”

              She sighed, flexing her fingers. “To be fair,” she said, smiling ruefully at her uncle, “I cut myself in a building with _vampires_ in it, and then was not particularly quick about taking care of it. I need to learn not to be an idiot. Seras is sweet, and tries so hard to still be a human - I let my guard down.”

              He watched her closely as her smile became icy.

              “It will not happen a second time.”

              As the evening stretched into nightfall, Colette agreed to demonstrate reconstruction magic for Walter and Integra, in fixing the vase. She could feel Alucard was watching, but perhaps due to his behavior earlier, he was not present for the demonstration. She laid the vase out in a magic circle sketched on the coffee table in Integra’s office using chalk. She traced a symbol in the air above the circle with casual movements, which caused the chalk to glow ethereally.

              “ _Hanc ego volo entibus.”_ The words were not a spell so much as an expression of her will. While the schools for her kind trained discipline, spells, specific incantations, magic words, one useful thing her father taught her was how magic responded to will. The words were only used to focus. While using Latin was a bit chicle, she admittedly found a perverse sense of enjoyment in quietly living up to a stereotype that entertainment media had propagated about her kind.

              The light from the magic circle snapped inward, colliding with the vase. The large shards that had broken from the rim levitated, rotated, and reconnected with the vase, aligning perfectly. Colette held her left hand over the vase as a bright purple light filled the cracks. As the light dissipated, the cracks were gone. She sighed and rolled her shoulders before leaning forward and brushing the chalk dust off of the coffee table with a rag she pulled form the pocket of her apron.

              Walter stepped forward to pick up the vase and examine it closely.

              “Would the spell have worked if it had been completely shattered?” he asked, rotating it in the light. She nodded.

              “However, if it is so damaged that it would take a considerable amount of my energy to repair the objects, I would just replace it if possible,” Colette confessed.

              Walter handed the vase to Integra, who also examined it. Her eyebrows raised, she handed it back to Walter.

              “Impressive work, Colette. You are dismissed for the evening.”

              The witch smiled and ducked her head. “Thank you, Sir.” She turned to leave, stopped by Integra’s voice.

              “One more thing.” When Colette turned back to her, Integra paused for a moment, closing her eyes and sighing as if considering her words carefully. “I assure you that I have discussed the events from earlier this evening with Alucard.” Her blue eyes were hidden behind the glare of light on her glasses. “However, please ensure to build your mental shields. You need to be able to work in proximity to Alucard without it affecting you.”

              Colette bowed and gave a soft “yes, Sir” before retreating.

              Once she reached her room, she stalked to where she had left her bag and pulled a thick book free from it, followed by a fountain pen. She opened the book and after a moment’s thought, began writing a series of runes. Once she was done, she ran her right index finger over the text. Each rune flared with violet light, and she ran her hand back over the text. As her fingertips passed the text, they disappeared from the page.

              She pulled up the petticoat and skirt with her left hand, then rolled down her semi-opaque dark gray stocking. Slowly, she drew the fingertips of her right hand over her thigh, as high up and close to her hip as she could reach. The runes flared into existence on her skin, before fading away. Only the faint suggestion of the runes remained visible, an extremely faded tattoo. The spell was designed to repel undead creatures if they tried to touch her, though she had no illusions that it would work on Alucard. Not without building the spell up in layers over time.

              Sighing, she leaned back and removed her shoes, then finished stripping off her stockings, then each article of her clothing. She tossed them into her hampers - one for the white shirt, one for the darker cloth - and slipped on her nightgown she’d left on her bed that morning. Finally, Colette laid out an identical uniform for the next day.

              Unpinning her hair, she let the heavy plaits drop, two on each side of her head.

              “If I find out you watched me change, vampire, I swear I will find a way to make you suffer,” she muttered to the silence in her room after she switched the lights off. Yawning, she padded to her bed and crawled under the covers. Sleep claimed her readily, exhaustion singing in every cell of her body.


End file.
